Part 5 (1/2)

I should be in a fine plight, truly, to let her go to France without me!--Why, I am almost besides myself at the thoughts of an eight days separation.--Was ever any thing so forgetful!--To bring no other cloaths here but mourning!--Did she always intend to encircle the sun with a sable cloud?--Or, why not dispatch a servant?--A journey into Oxfords.h.i.+re is absolutely necessary.--Some _other_ business, I suppose; but I am not enough in her confidence to know of what nature.--Poh!

love!--Impossible, and refuse me so small a boon as to attend her!--requested too in a manner that spoke my whole soul.--Yes; I had near broke through all my resolutions.--This I did say, If Miss Warley refuses her dear hand, pressing it to my lips, in the same peremptory manner,--what will become of him who without it is lost to the whole world?--The reply ventur'd no further than her cheek;--there sat enthron'd in robes of crimson.--I scarce dar'd to look up:--her eyes darted forth a ray so powerful, that I not only quitted her hand, but suffered her to leave the room without my saying another word.--This happened at Jenkings's last evening; in the morning she was to set out with the old gentleman for Oxfords.h.i.+re.--I did not attempt seeing her again 'till that time, fearing my presence might be unpleasing, after the confusion I had occasion'd.

Sick of my bed I got up at five; and taking a gun, directed my course to the only spot on earth capable of affording me delight.--The outer gate barr'd:--no appearance of any living creature, except poor Caesar.--He, hearing my voice, crept from his wooden-house, and, instead of barking, saluted me in a whining tone:--stretching himself, he jumped towards the gate, licking my hand that lay between the bars.--I said many kind things to this faithful beast, in hopes my voice would awaken some of the family.--The scheme succeeded.--A bell was sounded from one of the apartments; that opposite to which I stood.--A servant opening the window-shutters, I was tempted to keep my stand.--A white beaver with a green feather, and a riding-dress of the same colour, plainly told me this was the room where rested all my treasure, and caused in my mind such conflicts as can no more be described by _me_ than felt by _another_.--Unwilling to encrease my tortures I reeled to an old tree, which lay on a bank near;--there sat down to recover my trembling.--The next thing which alarmed me was an empty chaise, driving full speed down the hill.--I knew on _what_ occasion, yet could not forbear asking the post-boy.--He answered, To carry some company from yonder house.--My situation was really deplorable,--when I beheld my dear lovely girl walking in a pensive mood, attir'd in that very dress which I espied through the window.--Heavy was the load I dragged from head to heel; yet, like a Mercury, I flew to meet her.--She saw me,--started,--and cry'd, Bless me! my Lord! what brings you hither at this early hour?--The real truth was springing to my lips, when, recollecting her happiness might be the sacrifice, I said, examining the lock of my gun,--I am waiting, Miss Warley, for that lazy fellow Edmund:--he promised to shew me an eye of pheasants.--If you are not a very keen sportsman, returned she, what says your Lords.h.i.+p to a cup of chocolate?--It will not detain you long;--Mrs. Jenkings has some ready prepared for the travellers.

She p.r.o.nounced _travellers_ with uncommon glee;--at least I thought so,--and, nettled at her indifference, could not help replying, _You_ are _very_ happy, madam;--_you_ part with your friends _very_ unreluctantly, I perceive.

If any thing ever appeared in my favour, it was now.--Her confusion was visible;--even Edmund observed it, who just then strolled towards us, and said, looking at both attentively, What is the matter with Miss Warley?

With me, Edmund? she retorted,--nothing ails me.--I suppose you think I am enough of the fine lady to complain the whole day, because I have got up an hour before my usual time.

His tongue was _now_ silent;--his eyes _full_ of enquiries.--He fixed them on us alternately,--wanting to discover the situation of our hearts.--Why so curious, Edmund?--Things cannot go on long at this rate.--_Your_ heart must undergo a strict scrutiny before I shall know what terms we are upon.

No words can paint my grat.i.tude for worthy Jenkings.--He went to the Abbey, on foot, before breakfast was ended, to give me an opportunity of supplying his place in the chaise.--At parting he actually took one of my hands, joined it with Miss Warley's, and I could perceive pet.i.tions ascending from the seat of purity.--I know to what they tended.--I _felt_, I _saw_ them.--The chaise drove off. I could have blessed him.--May my blessings overtake him!--May they light where virtue sits enshrin'd by locks of silver.

Yes, if his son was to wound me in the tenderest part, for the sake of _such_ a father, I think,--I know not what to think.--Living in such suspence is next to madness.

She treats him with the freedom of a sister.--She calls him Edmund,--leans on his arm, and suffers him to take her hand.--The least favour conferred on me is with an air _so_ reserved, _so_ distant, as if she would say, I have not for you the least sentiment of tenderness.

Lady Powis sends to desire I will walk with her.--A sweet companion am I for a person in low spirits!--That her's are not high is evident.--She has shed many tears this morning at parting with Miss Warley.

Instead of eight days mortification we might have suffer'd twenty, had not her Ladys.h.i.+p insisted on an absolute promise of returning at that time.--Farewel till then.

Yours,

DARCEY.

LETTER XIII.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.

_From the Crown, at ----_.

Here am I, ever-honour'd lady, forty miles on the road to that beloved spot, where, for nineteen years, my tranquility was uninterrupted.--Will a serene sky always hang over me?--It will be presumption to suppose it,--when thousands, perhaps, endowed with virtues the most G.o.d-like, have nothing on which they can look _back_ but dark clouds,--nothing to which they can look _forward_ but gathering storms.--Am I a bark only fit to sail in fair weather?--Shall I not prepare to meet the waves of disappointment?

How does my heart bear,--how throb,--to give up follies which dare not hide themselves where a pa.s.sage is made _by_ generosity, _by_ affection unbounded.--Yes, my dear Lady, this is the only moment I do not regret being absent from you;--for could my tongue relate what my pen trembles to discover?--No!

Behold _me_ at your Ladys.h.i.+p's feet!--behold _me_ a supplicant suing for my returning peace!--_You_ only, can restore it.--Command that I give up my preference for Lord Darcey, and the intruder is banished from my heart:--_then_ shall I no more labour to deceive myself:--_then_ shall I no more blindly exchange certain peace for doubtful happiness,--a _quiet_ for a _restless_ mind.--Humility has not fled me;--my heart has not fallen a sacrifice to t.i.tle, pomp, or splendor.--Yet, has it not foolishly, unasked, given itself up?--Ah! my Lady, not entirely unask'd neither; or, why, from the first moment, have I seen him shew _such_ tender, _such_ respectful a.s.siduities?--why _so_ ardently solicit to attend me into Oxfords.h.i.+re?--why ask, if I refused my hand in the same peremptory manner, what would become of the man who without it was lost to the whole world?--But am I not too vain?--Why should this man be Lord Darcey?--Rather one rising to his imagination, who he might possibly suppose was entrapped by my girlish years.--A few, a very _few_ weeks, and I am gone from him forever.--If your Ladys.h.i.+p's goodness can pardon the confession I have made, no errors will I again commit of the kind which now lies blus.h.i.+ng before you.

Next to your Ladys.h.i.+p Mr. Jenkings is the best friend I have on earth.--He _never_ has suspected, or _now_ quite forgets his suspicions.--Not all my entreaties could prevent him from taking this long journey with me.--His age, his connections, his business, every thing is made subservient to my convenience--Whilst I write he is below, and has just sent up to know if I will permit a gentleman of his acquaintance, whom he has met accidentally at this inn, to dine with us.--Why does he use this ceremony?--I can have no objection to any friend of _his_.--Dinner is served up.--I shall write again at our last stage this evening.

_From the Mitre at ----_.

Past twelve at night!--An hour I used to think the most silent of any:--but _here_ so much the reverse, one reasonably may suppose the inhabitants, or guests, have mistaken midnight for mid-day.

I will ring and enquire, why all this noise?

A strange bustle!--Something like fighting!--Very near, I protest.--Hark! bless me, I shall be frightened to death!--The chambermaid not come! Would I could find my way to Mr. Jenkings's room!--Womens voices, as I live!--Begging!--praying!--Ah! ah! now they cry, Take the swords away!--Take the swords away!--Heaven defend us! to be sure we shall be all killed.